Firmly planted at the foot of the tall metal crucifix in the square, with a bread stall on one side and packed rows of young tomato plants on the other, a huge white Christ gazing down painfully above, the smallest of the smallholders are gathered: old men with chickens and rabbits in baskets and cages, songbirds, flitting budgerigars; there’s a boy with kittens to give away, chatons à donner; several women with eggs to sell and bits and pieces they’ve gathered – dandelion leaves, a few stalks of lilac from the garden, rapountchou. It’s no longer permitted to sell live pigs in this ad hoc way – they have to be properly auctioned at the livestock market – but it’s not that long ago that piglets could be stuffed into baskets and sold to passers-by, not just here but across Europe: an 1890 notice of fees in Sandbach market hall in Cheshire, for example, records that for only 1d you could bring ‘any number’ of pigs ‘in a basket not exceeding 17 inches in length’ or pay an extra penny for bringing a hamper 2' 6" long, presumably packed with more, or larger, animals.
There may be no more live pigs at our Thursday market, but the pig is nonetheless much in evidence. In this land of fatted ducks and Le Veau d’Aveyron, it’s still affordable pork and charcuterie products which are most visible around the stalls. This is mostly normal, cheaply produced meat rather than high-end, free-range Noir de Bigorre, so there is plenty of it: we can buy confited pigs’ hearts; trotters whole or cooked in jelly; andouillette made from daintily named chitterlings which turn out to be robust intestines; ears, lungs and livers; pâtés and terrines of all kinds; a range of saucissons. On a plancha grill over a big gas bottle, a man in an Olympique de Marseille football shirt is cooking black pudding to serve with caramelized apples. One of the farmers’ wives in the market hall has made a huge sausage pie which she’s selling in slices. A young trader has made a big slab of fritons with coarse chunks of pork, a marquetry of pig pressed in jelly, and he carves off portions with a large knife. The pig and the market are mutually sustaining: the strawberries may be lusciously red and tempting, but it’s the more earthy browns of the pork products that act as the fundamental scaffold for the comings and goings of the season.
We queue for sheep’s cheese and yoghurt in the arcaded square which is overshadowed on one side by a heavy bell tower, out of proportion to the church it abuts and evidence of rampant medieval ecclesiastical ambition. The vendor has a spot just under the arch of the tower, coolly shaded in the summer but still chilly now; he stamps his feet and blows on his hands. We talk about moving animals: he’s just brought his sheep up into new pasture. ‘It’s a fragile time of year,’ he says. ‘Everything’s –’ he makes a gesture suggesting a brief moment of balance ‘– délicat. You have to be careful with the animals – more than ever. They feel it.’ I buy a portion of creamy cheese and wonder if Big Pig and Little Pig feel this fragility he’s talking about.
When we’ve unpacked the shopping back at home, I walk Mo down to the orchard in search of signs of vulnerability: Big Pig is pulling at a thick root, his neck and haunches straining with effort; Little Pig is digging alongside, his head buried deep in the soil, moving rocks with his snout, pawing up clods of clay. They don’t seem in the least fragile. But the sheep farmer is wise and experienced, and our conversation reminds me that moving the pigs will be a big deal, for them as well as us, for them especially – a real upheaval.
Perhaps it’s just a matter of perception, of anticipation, but it seems that even in the last few days the pigs have outgrown their weaner enclosure. They are pressing up more often against the fence, squealing in indignant surprise if they get a shock. Little Pig is squabbling over space in the shelter. Big Pig snuffles the bare earth disconsolately, in an increasingly fruitless search for shoots and bugs. Around the boundaries and in front of the shelter, the ground is muddy and pitted. The pigs’ early inquisitiveness has matured into doughty investigation. Their dependence has grown into demand: they clamour for food, water, company, space. What started a couple of months ago as playful rummaging through the old ivy and at the foot of the plum trees has developed into full-scale, brute-strength excavation which throws out stones, bricks, scraps of metal, which can bulldoze a trench in no time at all and uproot saplings. This small patch of land has, for the moment, been used up; it needs a break from the endless back and forth of snouts and trotters.
And then, as a final prompt, there’s an emergency, of sorts. Mo and I walk down early with the morning feed and even before we’re halfway along the track, it’s clear that something is wrong. The pigs are too noisy. I know them well enough now to recognize this commotion as something new. This isn’t the usual low grunt of greeting – this is an anxious chunter, thrown out regardless of anyone’s approach, a squeaky garble of distress that can be heard across the fields and down to the lake, flipping back in jittery echoes from the ruined walls of the old farm. This is an unfamiliar sound; untamed.
I go on quickly and Mo stays close; closer than usual. The bucket bumps against my legs, spilling grain. A trail of powdery cereal sits up pale on the mud of the track, marking the point at which the panic kicked in. At the little white door in the wall we both pause, as though to brace ourselves. I say something to Mo, a ‘good dog’ sort of platitude, and at last the pigs seem to hear us. There’s a sudden quiet. They’re listening. But it only lasts a second, and then one of them grunts and then they both start squawking again.
And to my surprise, when I push open the door with my bucket, the pigs are there; right there. Upon me: flustered and barging. Usually, there’s a gap of several strides between the entrance and the electric fence, a kind of no-man’s-land where we can put sacks and pails out of reach and where Mo stands to watch what’s going on. Now this gap is full of pig. Little Pig is at the front, as always, trampling me, shoving against my legs so that I have to step away along the wall. Big Pig is not far behind, closing in from the other side. Both of them have their snouts held high and they’re intent on pushing on, pushing forward, anywhere, anyhow. They’re taking little account of me. They’ve noticed me, but only as an obstruction. They don’t seem to recognize me, or care that I’m there. For the first time since we’ve had them, I’m intimidated by this weight of careering animal and by their reckless single-mindedness – by their wildness.
Sensibly, Mo flees through the door. I’m tempted to follow; I back up until my hand finds the latch. But I don’t want to be afraid of the pigs. And I’ve got the bucket, the all-powerful bucket. So I step forward into the scrum of heavy black flanks and I push hard at Little Pig, thrust my knee into his side, kick out at Big Pig, force my way through, ignore the noise. I keep the bucket high and slap it with my palm, so that they’ll know it’s there, and I call to them: ‘Come on, boys! Come on.’ My voice is high and strained.
I make my way clear and can drop the bucket to my side. I begin to see what has happened. The fence is down. It’s not just the wire loosened or one of the posts pushed over: the whole fence, posts and wire and everything, is trampled into the ground along a length of perhaps five metres. Inside what was the enclosure, the shelter is more or less demolished. There’s a tangle of plastic table leg and corrugated metal and straw, but little else. The feeding trough has been kicked away into the mud; I right it and scrape off the worst of the dirt with the toe of my boot before refilling it. As I do this, the pigs slow and quieten. They watch me, properly, with interest. Their eyes are soft where they had been hard; their heads drop as the tension subsides. They know who I am. I’m the person who brings food. I’m a good thing. And abruptly, as though a switch has been flicked, they are domesticated again, recognizable, shuffling back and forth along the length of the trough in the endless search for the best mouthful of grain, their noses floured with cereal dust, their ears lolling, their tails flicking contentedly.
But I’m unnerved by what I’ve seen. Unnerved for two reasons. Firstly, I’ve seen, for the first time, Little Pig and Big Pig as grown animals, heavy, unpredictable, capable of crushing limbs without compunction. The
weaner days are well and truly gone. These are mature beasts, wilful, independent, a bit anarchic; not pets or playthings. I knew this, in my head, but now I’ve seen it and felt it, and been afraid of it, and I actually, properly realize what it means – a day or two before we attempt to take these animals out of their safe place, walk them through the neighbourhood and set them loose on a much bigger, wilder area of land with only a few lines of electric fence to keep them from people’s homes and gardens, the village at the foot of the woods, absolute freedom beyond. This is the first thing that unnerves me.
The second is this: when I look at the flattened fence I realize that it’s been trampled from the outside in. The damage is not the pigs’ doing. This is not an attempt to escape. Probably they had the shelter down in their panic; probably they upended the trough; probably they made the wreckage worse – but this was because they were frightened. The danger has come from outside; the fence has been pushed to the ground by something, or someone, forcing a path to the pigs. That’s what all the noise was about. The dismay. The confusion.
There’s been an intruder. A threat. An attack.
An attack, a ruffian, an intruder. History repeating. Bisset’s black pig, living such a different life to Big Pig and Little Pig, nonetheless has his own assailant, an assault out of the blue. His tale takes a darker turn. I read this latest episode in the eighteenth-century story on the evening after I’ve cleared up the scattered fence at the Mas de Maury and I’m struck by how vulnerable Bisset’s pig is as it adapts itself to stardom in a new environment. No matter how learned he might be, he’s a pig out of place, an eccentricity. I recall the fear so clearly evident in Big Pig and Little Pig earlier that day, even in the quiet safety of their own enclosure, and I feel sorry for Bisset’s pig, dragged from the known and the habitual into the uncertainty of spectacle.
It’s the middle of a performance: the Dublin crowd is enthralled. This night is going just as well as the previous two nights, perhaps better. The spectators are clapping, cheering, laughing. There’s banter, of course, prattle and joking. People are excited, fascinated. They like what they’re seeing. They love the pig. Who doesn’t love the pig, so sage and solid?
And the pig, deliberate and equable in the fuss and heat of the room, has already accomplished several admirable acts of mathematics and is poised to spell the name of a young lady in the second row, the lady in the flouncy hat with pinkish ribbons and pinkish cheeks. On the floor, there’s an alphabet of cards laid in a circle, a circus of bold red letters. The pig is in its place in the circle; its eyes are bright. Bisset has his hand on his pig’s neck, his palm flat just above the point where the red of the pig’s waistcoat gives way to thickening black hair below the ears, and he is leaning towards the woman, smiling broadly, tantalizing her, holding them all entranced in this moment of anticipation. He’s the showman, the performer, the tease. Will the black pig do it? Will it spell? Again? As it did last night? What’s the woman’s name? How can the pig know it? How does the animal do it?
‘Poor Bisset’, say the papers the next day. ‘Poor injured Bisset’,7 laments The Sporting Magazine. There will be no spelling tonight, no magic, no romance. Instead, from out of nowhere, there’s a gatecrasher. A man with no ticket and no smile, who bursts into the room and pushes rudely through the crowd. And he’s quickly on to the stage, scattering the spelling cards, breaking the props, stamping on everything he can find, throwing letters and balls and books against the walls. Perhaps, for a moment, one or two of the spectators im-agine all this is part of the act, but they soon see this can’t be true: there can be no mistaking the intruder’s steady anger or his will for destruction, and now he’s pummelling Bisset, too, punching him in the face and stomach, kicking him when he falls. This is no pantomime beating.
The intruder takes no notice of the howls of protest; he’s glaring around him, cursing those who’ve encouraged such a foolish spectacle. He wants to put a stop to it, immediately and at any cost. And he’s a policeman, of sorts, with the power to make them obey him, and so the woman in the second row gives up hoping the pig will spell her name and backs away, and several other women cluster together in the far corner of the room where things are quieter, and though the men shout and complain and one or two throw their fists in the air, the intruder ignores them. Instead he draws his sword. He wants to kill the pig.
Poor Bisset, breathing hard, dizzy with pain, pleads his case. He explains that he has all the correct permissions, all in order, everything as it should be and agreed by the Chief Magistrate. He pleads for the life of his pig, his special pig. He is as bold as he has ever been, as sincere as he can be, and he forces himself to stand up straight and place himself between the pig and the sword.
The policeman of sorts pauses, stays his hand, but his sword remains drawn between them and the pig is trapped now against the wall, quiet enough but uneasy, its tail swishing. This is not part of the show. The pig has not been taught how to behave on such an occasion. And the policeman of sorts gives no ground. He hears Bisset’s defence but he doesn’t want to believe what he hears. He scowls at the big black dirty animal; he shakes his head, grimaces, thrusts forward with his sword so there can be no mistake and makes a threat: if the show is not halted at once then Bisset will be dragged away to prison and the pig slaughtered. He’s flushed, pleased. He addresses the crowd with a flourish and sends them home. The entertainment is over.
Poor Bisset. On the brink of another great success. The intruder, the policeman of sorts, struts from the room, leaving a trail of indignant quiet behind him. The crowd ebbs away. One or two of the spectators offer Bisset a sympathetic word, a kindly glance, but he hardly knows where he is and he does not respond.
All the accounts I come across agree that Bisset is blameless. He has the right permissions and he’s doing nothing wrong. It appears to be an unprovoked, unreasonable attack by a jobsworth law enforcer – one of the reports concludes that the pig ‘in the practice of good manners,8 was at least the superior of the assailant’. But still Bisset has to go. The policeman of sorts may return, may be as good as his word and haul Bisset to the stinking Dublin gaol. So he gathers himself, tries to collect his thoughts and rally his spirits. He has the pig, after all. Worse could have happened. He aches badly from the beating; there’s a wound from the blade of the sword; his agitation makes him woozy, but he’s proved himself here on Dame Street; he’s been the talk of Dublin; he has fat bundles of banknotes in his pocket. He can go on to better things, to London. The pig is already a star; there’ll be crowds every night, genteel crowds, the wealthy, no ruffians with swords. Bisset takes a breath, pats the pig.
Early next morning Bisset pays half a guinea and takes the boat from Dublin harbour to Holyhead; the pig travels with him, for another half-guinea. It does not mix with the farm animals below deck but has special passage as a pig in a waistcoat (and perhaps boots), and they stand together by the rails as the Irish Sea swells below them. Bisset is feeling the effects of the attack; his usual energy is drained, his head aches, his vision wobbles. He wishes he did not feel so sick. He wishes they were already safely in London. The pig, on the other hand, seems unaffected by the traumatic events of the previous night or the roll of the boat on the waves. A stoic pig.
The boat docks; the passengers disembark. One or two people stop Bisset to ask about the pig, but he doesn’t want to bother with them. He’s quite rude. He wants to get on. But a day or two later the travellers are still only at Chester. They should have been well on their way to London by now but they’ve been forced to a halt. Bisset has had to take lodgings. He’s not well. His thoughts are scatty, lathered; he can’t remember where he is, or why. He’s anxious all the time and afraid; he sees intruders in the shadows and calls out; his agitation stifles him; he does not eat. He’s in his bed. He’s cold. Done in.
Done for.
In August 1783 Samuel Bisset died in a room in Chester from the effects of a beating in Ireland, and for the sake of a pig. He was no
t known in the city, and his death was ignored. There were no notices in the newspapers; the town crier had nothing to say about the matter. No one bothered much about his family. The pot of money he’d brought with him from Dublin – the fruits of three splendid perform-ances – was never seen again: lost, or stolen; perhaps taken by the landlord to settle the account. The burial had to be paid for, after all. But the money wasn’t everything, of course, and as I reach the end of this part of the story, I’m left wondering about the pig. In these last few days of Bisset’s life, when he was shivering on his deathbed in some dingy Chester backstreet, where was the pig? Nothing is said in any of the accounts about who might have stepped in to take care of it, if anyone, or about what was decided for its future without the man who had been so long its companion. The death notice appearing almost six months later in the Westmeath Journal even gets Bisset’s name wrong, calling him John. In all this confusion and uncertainty, the tale appears to grind to a halt leaving the most important question unanswered: what on earth happened to Bisset’s pig?
We clear up in the enclosure. We push the fence posts into new ground and trail the wire from one to the other. We rebuild the shelter, again. Since the entire place will be emptied in a day or two when the pigs are moved, it feels like a chore; but we’re careful, nonetheless, because it’s not clear what happened during the night, nor what came here to the old orchard. We turn up the current on the electric fence. We check for gaps in the wall.
Big Pig, Little Pig: A Tale of Two Pigs in France Page 9